Broken Wings And Other Such Things
by Skylarcat
Summary: Everything changed in one week. Monday, he placed his hand on the small of her back. Tuesday, he held her hand. Wednesday, whenever he stood next to her, she couldn't breathe. Thursday, he kissed her. And Friday, nothing. But sometimes nothing can lead to smut. One-shot.


**Title:** Broken Wings And Other Such Things.  
><strong>Author:<strong> Skylarcat  
><strong>Classification:<strong> One shot. Angie Flynn, Oscar Vega.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: Tease of Smut.  
><strong>Feedback:<strong> Read, love it, review it.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Monday he placed his hand on the small of her back. Tuesday he held her hand. Wednesday he stood beside her and she thought she would faint. Thursday he kissed her. And Friday nothing and nothing always leads to smut. (Okay this has been sitting on my laptop FOREVER. With several other ones. I can't seem to fix the ending. So posting regardless. Trying to wrap all of these up because I found several incomplete stories for other shows, so I know I am known not to finish stories and since this show is in limbo with 60 to 40 percent of ABC NOT returning it next summer. And, once that occurs, probably go into an absence, so need to finish what I can now.) This is for all the quiet, ghost readers. You can review, promise I don't bite.  
><strong>Note:<strong> Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.

...

Some things in life just weren't meant to be understood. Like pages, in novels, in foreign languages, that no matter how hard she tried, she could never comprehend them. They were written in a dialect that was beyond her realm of understanding; not because she could not read them, because she could, but because of the stories they told: of beautiful French girls, who sought the world for love and the perfect man, they always had happy endings, but for her, such verse did not exist. Love was just has native; an imagine; an idea that females created, drew out or wrote about in forms of poetry. It wasn't the truth; just one constricted belief passed through the lips of one generation to the next; feeble romantics that knew nothing about the real world and how it actually worked.

At times, he could be just as foreign to her, written in his own language. And though she longed to learn how to speak it fluently, to communicate in the same way, she instead sewed her lips shut, vowing to not speak of such sentiments. She confined her love for him in tiny vials and sat them on her shelves to collect dust. Years from now, when she was old and bitter, she would take them down, and with tired fingers brush the dust aside, seeing the beauty of what might have been, but never was. It was irrational, she knew, but it made sense to her. It kept her safe, and it also kept her very alone.

Mistakes had to be made. They taught valuable lessons. They hardened people. And without them, there simply would be no point in living. No one could see into the future, it was better that way, she thought, the not knowing. For if she did know—if knew how everything would unfold, knew everything that would happen, all the consequences; she would be denying herself the one important aspect of life: the taking a chance. There was fear in the unknown, but there was also fear in knowing. She would be ruined. She could never live or love again; she wouldn't dare too. Because there would be no risk, no gamble, no shot in the dark. It was those things that she lived for, but also those things that she denied herself.

But that was the question that now presented itself; all shiny and sparkling in the darkness of her bedroom. Was the chance at happiness to grand a risk for her to take? What she needed was perspective, other points of views, a scale to measure the pros and cons. What exactly would she be getting herself into? And what did she stand to lose from it?

She could write a thesis on hate. She hated Mondays, hated the color pink, hated onions. Hate was easy; it was clear and one-sided, no layers of introspect, and fell from people's tongues as though a second language; accusations and lies and elements of disgust. She had her experiences with hate, but love was something entirely different. It obscured the mind, shadowed the ability to think and be rational. It blinded the sense to reason. It was as sharp as a blade, but as soft as a feather; it could cut you and heal you at the same time. That was the miracle of love. She loved her son. She loved the ocean. And she loved him.

She knew she loved him because only love could cause this much pain and bliss at the same time. She felt it burning from inside her, beneath her flesh and in her marrow, swelling and setting her soul on fire. It swallowed her from the side out; consumed everything that was left of her. Love had to be survived, or you would end up its casualty. It was cruel that way. It was beautiful that way.

She laid on cotton sheets that crinkled and bunched at her feet. The window was opened, blowing the long curtains; sweeping their ends across the hard wood floor like the bristles of an artist's brush, slowly and precisely as though each stoked was calculated. She watched from her bed in awe, fascinated by the soft movement. Her hair was damp and sticking to her forehead. Nights with hot temperatures always made it hard for her to sleep; though she doubted that the weather was to blame for restlessness. She was a slave to her own inquiring mind; never able to shut it off, to quiet the quarrels of her heart and mind. They warred in her head like solders, waging their own battles.

She sighed and rolled over onto her back, folding her arms above her head. She wasn't even sure where it began; this constant downward motion; this state of falling. When was it that she had lost her footing? When had she took that misstep, crossed that line that she had perfected over the years? When had things changed between them forever?

On Monday, he had simply placed his hand on the small of her back, and guided her out the precinct. Once outside, he didn't bother to remove it. Instead he kept it there as they headed in the direction of her car. And only after she opened the door did he drop his hand. And what was left was an imprint, a permitted placement for his touch. And now she felt a void deep inside; the longing for his touch once more. Perhaps it had been instinctive for him, but for her it had ignited a chemical reaction, one that started in the pit of her stomach and spread all the way to the back of her throat. For the rest of the day she stood on wobbly legs, waiting for his hand to return.

Then on Tuesday, she sat at her desk and he sat directly on the other side, both filling out mounds of paperwork for a current case, when unexpectedly he reached out, brushing a finger across her hand. She glanced up, catching his eye, and he lingered there, for what felt like an eternity. And then he intertwined his fingers with hers, his thumb tracing circles on her skin. And then he let go as quickly as he had grabbed hold. He returned to his paperwork as though nothing had happened, but his eyes didn't break from hers, and she felt the change, saw it clear as day. They were playing a dangerous game.

By the time Wednesday came; she was a complete wreck, a bundle of nerves. She felt it inside her chest; the pounding of her heart. It beat like a hammer on a nail. With each cadence came a breath that would escape her lips, reminding her that she was breathing, that she was still alive. And all he had to do was stand next to her, to make her weak in the knees. It was in the way her hands would tremble, longing to reach out and touch him and she would shove them into her pockets, hoping to contain them. It was in the way her eyes would seek him out in a crowded room and everyone else would fade away. It was in the way she would practice saying her first name with his last name when no one else was around. Something had shifted.

And then it was Thursday, and on that day he had kissed her. It was just a peck on the lips, but a kiss is never just a kiss. And this was their first, her soft lips on his full mouth. And she felt the electricity, the snap, the burn. And when he stepped back, she realized she was still standing with her eyes closed. And when he walked away, she brushed her fingers along the aftermath of her swollen lips, knowing she would never kiss another.

On Friday nothing happened. He practically ignored her for the entire day; only talking to her when necessary and she felt her insides knot; all her organs and blood condensing into a cluster causing her to not be able to breathe. She had gone home early in hopes of quieting her mind; so far she wasn't having any luck. Her mind summersaulted inside her head; tumbled and flip-flopped like a well-trained gymnast. And all she wanted was some quiet, some degree of stillness. Her partner was quickly consuming every faucet of her being. Now not only her mind, but her heart as well.

Time moved over her like a sluggish wave and she could only allow it to push her forward, waiting for it to retreat, so she could inspect the damage it left behind. She could only hope their partnership or their friendship was still left intact, if nothing else.

She loved him, perhaps too much to ever say it aloud, but she imagined he knew. Just as she knew he loved her; it was just there, clear as words written in fine dark ink on crisp white pages. It was beautiful, lovely, and a bit frightening. She imagined it was like flying, the spreading of wings and taking flight, the sudden rush of air and wind; the feeling of the unknown.

She wasn't good at relationships. They were disposable to her. She would crumble them like paper in her hands and simply toss them away when she was finished with them. The harder it was to love a particular man, the more she would give. It was a challenge and she needed a challenge, needed it to be difficult because love wasn't supposed to be easy.

But it was. With him, it came easy, innate, like riding a bike. Once learned, it came instinctively. And it questioned everything she knew of love. She was born and bred in habit; it was in her flesh, in her blood, and it stained her. It also kept her on guard, never quite allowing him in fully. But she did love him. It was as real as the blood that pumped in her veins. And now without him, she felt wounded, like a bird with a broken wing.

She felt as though her life was simply passing her by, in bursts of moments and seconds, drifting further and further away as if on a raft, riding the current of a rogue wave. Romance had promised to be so exciting, full of lust and surprises, but in reality it was more of an obsession, embellished with a hint of nausea, and she felt delirious from it.

It was almost like having an out of body experience. As if she had left her body and crossed the room now staring at herself lolling on the bed, with porcelain skin and tired eyes. How did it come to this, she could only wonder.

The knock at the door interrupted her thoughts like a dart to a balloon and she rolled over, glancing at the clock. It was early in the morning, too early to be anyone other than him. She stood from her bed and walked to the front door, swinging the door open without even bothering to check who it was.

He stood in her door frame, still wearing the clothes he wore that morning. "Couldn't sleep," he stated causally; as though showing up at her house two in the morning was a normal routine for them.

"Me either," she stated, stepping back so he could enter.

He walked into the room in one long stride; his movements almost deliberate, as if he were a man on a mission. She watched him through curious eyes, studying him in the darkness of the room, the only light coming from the moon shining through her large bay window. He looked as he always looked; still wearing his slacks and white button-down shirt, but his coat and tie had been forsaken. Even in the darkness she could tell he was telling the truth about not being able to sleep, she could see the deep dark circles beneath his eyes. He appeared as though something was on his mind, obviously so, considering here he was standing in her living room early in the morning.

She waited for him to speak first, taking a step closer to him, narrowing the space that separated them. "I've been thinking," he began; his voice low and raspy. His words fell from his tongue like honey and she ravished in the sweetness. "I think we should be together." And he said it as though it was that simple. As though once said it would just magically be.

She narrowed her brows at the sound of his words. They lagged in her ears causing her heart to beat rapidly. She swore it would splinter right there inside her chest, sending fragments of broken arteries and vessels to spray across her insides, creating a map, a diagram of where her heart had once existed. It belonged to him now. "Vega," she warned; her voice a shaky whisper. It could never be that easy.

He held up his hand, essentially cutting her off and all she could do was stand and listen to what he had to say. "Angie, I know this could be messy and complicated. Hell, you're messy and complicated, but I can do messy and complicated; I love messy and complicated. I love you. And this could work…if you would just allow it to." He spoke in quick succession, his words bursting forth like fireworks. They were just as colorful.

She raked her hands through her hair and tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing at it in consideration. Of course she had thought about it, even allowed herself to dream of being with him, but if she ruined this, she could lose him forever and this terrified her. "I know you think you want this, Vega, but let's be honest; I'm not easy to get along with. I over analyze everything. I will search for that one flaw and I will intensify it. I will ruin this. I will ruin you and I will ruin us. And I don't want to do that. You deserve better than that; than me."

He lifted his hand, trailing his fingers along her chin and she leaned into his touch. Touch was the first form of communication. It came even before sight, before speech. It said everything when words failed. And his touch was telling that he wasn't letting her go; not now, not ever.

"Relationships are between two people, so you don't get to have all the power in this. You don't get to decide for the both of us. I want you Angie Flynn. And there's not a damn thing you can do to change that," he said, sneaking his hands around her neck and into her hair, gripping firmly, so she could not escape. "I don't want anyone else. I want you. So don't leave me out here. Let me in. I am begging you. Let me in, please."

She realized that she was crying; big wet heavy tears rolled down her cheeks and clung to her chin before falling gravely. "I do want you," she admitted, softly. She wanted him with every fiber of her being. But sometimes you couldn't have what you always wanted.

He didn't wait for her to protest and before she knew it, his mouth was on hers and she parted her lips allowing him entry. It was soft at first, lips moving in gentle union, but it quickly became more desperate, hungrier. It filled her, consumed her, threatened to swallow her whole, if they did not part soon, so to breathe.

Somehow they ended up on the floor. She was pinned between the floor and his body and she didn't care. She could feel him hard and ready and she moaned his name in response. This encouraged him as he continued to place kisses along her jaw and down her neck, pressing his hips into hers. She felt like a butterfly caught in a net, one that she did not want to escape.

He lowered his lips to her ear and whispered, "I want you. I want you so bad." To prove this to her, he nibbled along her lobe and then down her neck, kissing her across her collarbone. She tilted her head back, giving herself over to him, and he took the opportunity to move his mouth to her expose cleavage, kissing her warm inviting skin. She could feel every muscle in her body tense.

He returned to her lips once more, kissing her hard, using teeth and tongue and she could feel her lips swollen and raw, but she never wanted him to stop again. She could feel her toes curl, her back arching slightly, longing for him to somehow be closer to her. She buried her fingers into his hair, holding on for dear life, determined to never let him go.

He pulled away and she sighed, missing his tough. But she caught her breath when she realized he was now pulling her sweater up over her head. Once it was off, he threw the garment somewhere behind him, and she could feel her skin flush, turning the same shade as her pink bra. She braced her hands against his shoulders, trying to collect herself, to make sense of everything. "I can't…" Breathe. Think. Speak. All of the above. She forgot what she was going to say the moment he unbuttoned her pants. Instead, she lifted her hips, assisting him as he pulled them down her legs and off in one quick motion. They joined her sweater across the room.

She didn't know how he'd managed it so quickly, but he had removed her bra and panties in a flash of light and movement and now she was completely naked in front of him. And he watched her with a degree of hungriness that she never saw in him before.

He stood in front of her close enough to touch, the darkness surrounding them. She propped herself up onto her elbow and watched as he stripped naked. His boxers were the last to go and her eyes lingered on his erection and instinctively she licked her lips, knowing what was about to come.

And then he was inside her. She could feel her muscles contract around his thickness. And for the first time in her life, she actually felt complete. Like she was a whole person. That she was made for him and he was made for her and their entire lives, everything was meant for them to come together. She had found her person.


End file.
